


Catastrophic Unions and the Inevitablities of the Improbable

by sherloe



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Declarations Of Love, Eventual Smut, Fix-It, Fluff, Intimacy, John is a Mess, M/M, Mary is mean, Misunderstandings, Pining, Rimming, Sherlock is smoll, Virgin Sherlock, bottomlock, more like romantic, platonic showering, post-HLV, well i say platonic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-09
Updated: 2015-07-02
Packaged: 2018-04-03 14:34:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4104424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherloe/pseuds/sherloe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Now, he desperately longed for the mix of comfortable domesticity and exhilarating crime solving that made up their lives, missed the moments in between when their eyes made contact and travelled over each other when they thought the other wasn't looking, when laughs were shared easily and touches lingered just a moment too long.</p>
<p>Post-HLV Fix-It Fic</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is truly my first multi-chapter work of fanfiction, and I'm a little bit nervous, but also excited. Thank you to my best friend and beta, benschins, for putting up with far more than my grammatical errors. This is the first thing I've written in quite awhile, so please excuse any inadequacies.
> 
> I do not own any characters portrayed in this work, I just like to play with them. :-)
> 
> I do not consent for this work to displayed, re-posted, or sold on any platform, virtual or otherwise.
> 
> Hope you all enjoy! xx

"Darling," Mary called from the kitchen, shattering the tense silence like a stone through glass, "would you stop at the shops and pick a few things up while I'm at my doctor's appointment?"

John's fingers clenched around the newspaper he was holding, causing it to crinkle. She was being obnoxiously nice today. She always was when she had a baby check up, as if it were her way of rubbing it in his face that he was trapped with her. She knew he was only staying for their child; he refused to be an absentee father like his own, he would love his daughter despite holding no love for her mother.

"Sure, just...leave a list, I guess." He paused and sighed, running a hand down his face. He tried desperately to bite down the words that forced themselves out next, "Do you...want me to come with you?"

Mary walked into the sitting room, handed him a mug of tea, and waved her hand dismissively. "No, love, just a check up, make sure everything's going well with the baby. And," she shot him a cold look, "I know you don't like to be seen with me."

He hated himself for not being able to deny it, hated how smart she was, how she could read him so easily. It made his stomach churn how vulnerable he felt under her analytical gaze, hated that she knew how much he despised her with every breath he took. He was perfectly aware that she was similar to Sherlock in this regard, always watching, observing, but for all their similarities, Sherlock was so, so very different. With Sherlock, he didn't feel like a specimen on a slide being stared at under a microscope, he didn't feel like he was being dissected, or watched like he was a small animal being eyed by its prey. With Sherlock he felt safe. He felt comfort in the fact that Sherlock could read him because Sherlock didn't want to hurt him, he just wanted to understand. And John wanted him to. God, he did. It worked. They worked. _Like two puzzle pieces_ , he thought, ruefully chuckling to himself how his friend would chide him for using the cliché, calling him a romantic with a dramatic roll of his grey eyes.

He missed him. He quickly swallowed the ball of guilt that formed, reminding him that he hadn't actually spoken to Sherlock in several weeks.

"Well, I'll just go, then. Shopping list is on the table." She dropped a kiss on his hair and he barely resisted the urge to pull away. "See you soon, love."

She turned away and he rolled his eyes at her back. He hated it when she used pet names. Every _darling_ or _love_ felt like a slap in the face. A pathetic attempt to normalize something so beyond repair. He sat on the couch for a few more minutes before he forced himself to go into the kitchen to grab the shopping list. He absentmindedly twirled his keys around his fingers, glaring at the list, his wife's sharp handwriting staring up at him.

He huffed and snatched the paper up, shoving it into his pocket and walking towards the front door. He stopped as the shrill ring of the phone hit his ears, hand pausing on the doorknob, deciding that he'd let it go to voicemail and see who it was. The machine beeped and man's desperate voice cracked through the speaker. John turned toward the voice, an eyebrow raised in confusion. David. As in...Mary's overzealous ex, David. His voice was shaky and rushed... _like he's done something he shouldn't_ , John thought.

_"M-mary...it's, uh, me, it's David. Look, I know...I know you said not to call here, but, well, it's the only number I have and I hate the way we left things. I know you said you didn't want me involved with the...with the baby, but, Mary, it's my child, too, and I feel responsible. I know you're with John now, but maybe we could work something out? Just...call me back. Please."_

The machine clicked off as if it hadn't just delivered a message that would alter John's life. Again. John's hand slipped away from the doorknob. He blinked, going back over David's message in his head. The idiot had called on their _home phone_. It started deep in his gut, a ticklish, bubbly, dark feeling that travelled up and out of his mouth. A laugh. Possibly, it was the shock of it. Maybe it was the irony. Maybe the flood of relief that washed over him, a dash of grief, maybe a mix of everything, but this struck John as extremely hilarious and he doubled over, opened his mouth wide and laughed, and laughed, and laughed.

***

He realized later as he sat at the dining room table with a glass of whiskey and the answering machine in front of him that he wasn't surprised. He pressed play on the message for the sixth time since he sat down.

_"M-mary, it's, uh, me, it's David..."_

John took another swig of his whiskey and sneered at the voice. Of course. Of course it was David's baby. He can't deny that he's partly relieved. There's no longer anything tying him into this marriage, but he's still furious. Furious at himself for not realizing it, for believing Mary wouldn't lie to him again, but then, maybe he never believed that to begin with. Truth be told, he wasn't nearly as angry with himself as he was with his wife. Not only did she lie about something that affected his life a great deal _again_ , she was unfaithful to him, and manipulated him, using the baby as a way to keep him tied to her like a puppet on strings.

_"Just...call me back. Please."_

He drained the rest of his drink and slammed the tumbler on the table. He pressed play on the machine for the seventh time.

Mary walked in the door an hour later. John had just finished listening to David's message for the fourteenth time. Mary walked into the kitchen and hung her coat on the back of a chair. She walked around the table, leaning down to kiss John's temple, and this time, he let himself act on the urge to pull away. Mary stopped in her tracks. John thought he could feel the air between them get physically colder.

"What's this, then?" She asked, straightening and setting a hand over her large belly. Her face was pinched, shoulders tense. John pressed play on the answering machine. Fifteen.

_"M-mary...it's, uh, me, it's David. I know...Listen, I know...I know you said not to call here..."_

"John," A warning tinted Mary's voice.

"Shut up."

Mary's mouth clicked shut and she let the message play. Hatred swirled thickly in the silence between them. John stared intently at a scratch on the table, his voice coming out even and firm when he spoke.

"Pack a bag, and go to a friend's. I'll be sending you divorce papers."

"John, can't we talk about this? Be reasonable," Mary scoffed.

John hummed darkly, an angry smirk cutting across his face. "No...no, you heard what the fuck I said. And I think...considering everything you've put me through...I'm being pretty fucking reasonable." He spoke firmly, quietly, choosing his words carefully, as if admonishing a disobedient child. "Don't you?"

She glared at him.

"That's what I thought. Leave."

Mary turned as sharply as her pregnant stomach would allow, and marched toward their room. She left ten minutes later and with a slam of the front door.

John's shoulders slumped, his head falling to rest wearily in his hands. His mind felt heavy, so heavy. He wasn't entirely sure he could deal with this burden right now. He wanted to forget. Forget that his marriage was over, that his baby wasn't actually his, that he hadn't spoken to Sherlock in over a month. He found himself completely alone and the hollow feeling in his chest was only all too familiar.

He grabbed the mostly full bottle of whiskey from where it sat on the table and with a muttered "Fuck," took a generous swig.

Half an hour later and a third of the way through his cheap bottle of whiskey, his brain fumbled back online, abuzz with alcohol, just this side of shit-faced. It found him staring at a wall, his thoughts having remained stagnant while he rhythmically tossed back drink after drink, getting himself drunk as quickly as was technically safe. His thoughts finally turned to Sherlock, which was undoubtedly inevitable, so there was no point in fighting it. His first thought was how much he missed him. Fuck, he missed him so much it ached and he was drowning in the guilt at not having contacted him for the last month.

A sick realization hit him that he didn't even know what Sherlock had been doing all on his these past few weeks. He'd only been in the papers a couple of times, much less than usual, so not taking many cases, then. He trusted he was staying clean, he'd like to think Mycroft would let him know if he were "back on the sauce" as he liked to put it. So what was Sherlock doing? Was he over at Baker Street right now, playing his violin to an empty flat, or talking to his skull? The thought broke John's heart.

They were both back where they started five years earlier before they had met and changed each others lives, and it was all John's fault. Sherlock was off doing God knows what, and John...John was alone now because of he was shit at making right decisions, apparently. There was no flesh wound he could blame this time, he was alone because of his own blunders. But the loneliness felt different now. More hollow, because now he was aware of the acute lack of Sherlock's presence, usually snug by his side, fitting himself into the crevices in John's heart, which only echoed loudly now in his empty chest, searching for Sherlock's sound presence to bounce off of, seeking him out to ground the weary doctor. How could he have messed everything up so colossally?

There was something there, before The Fall. Something teasing and new, like the last few persistent days of winter when hopeful buds would bloom, encouraging spring to arrive. John felt as if they were approaching the cusp of a future together that he hardly even dared dream about. No one could deny the connection that was present the second their eyes locked on that first day in Bart's. The media certainly wasn't shy about posing it's, frankly, unwanted opinion, hell, even their closest friends seemed to be anticipating it. But something was definitely rearing its head, and John started to think that it was only a matter of time. Then he fell and...

Now, he desperately longed for the mix of comfortable domesticity and exhilarating crime solving that made up their lives, missed the moments in between when their eyes made contact and travelled over each other when they thought the other wasn't looking, when laughs were shared easily and touches lingered just a moment too long.

He threw back another swallow of whiskey. He'd lost his chance and he'd accepted this long ago, but it didn't make his heart hurt any less. He briefly thought about calling Sherlock up, but pushed the thought aside. How pathetic it would be to call his best friend (were they still friends?) after weeks of silence to ask for a shoulder to cry on. No, John did still have a shred of pride, and he quite intended on hanging onto it.

***

**[Missed Calls]**

**John Watson (2)**

**3:28 AM**

Sherlock looked up from his experiment, stretching his arms over his head and groaning as he cracked his back. Not that he would ever admit it out loud, but he was getting too old to be bent over his microscope for hours at a time. He picked up his phone to check the time and his stomach lurched at the sight of John's name lit up on the screen. Two missed calls. The only reason for anyone (other than himself, of course) to call at such ungodly hours was if something bad had happened. His heart leapt into his throat. He pushed the call back button and pressed the phone to his ear. The phone rang twice before the line clicked on and John's voice came through the speaker. Sherlock let out a breath he didn't know he was holding.

"John," he sighed, unable to hide the relief in his voice.

"H'lo, Sh'lock," John slurred. Obviously very drunk.

Sherlock pursed his lips, trying not to feel disappointed. Drunk calls were better than no calls, he supposed. He schooled his voice into a neutral tone and willed his heart rate to go down. "Hello."

John giggled on the other end of the line. "Liss'n...c-couldjyu come over? Miss you. Miss you, Sh'lock. My, uh, findy person. Dective...dective...de...tec...tive...thass right. Miss...mphh--"

The end of John's (frankly nonsensical) sentence was interrupted by a sharp retching noise and the clatter of his phone falling onto the floor. Sherlock let out a tiny worried gasp.

"John? John, are you okay?" No answer. Damn. _He's passed out_ , thought Sherlock. He sighed and threw on his coat, rushing out of the flat. John needed him.

***

The smell of alcohol hit Sherlock squarely in the face as he entered John's home. Shattered glass littered the floor, parts of it remains from a liquor bottle John smashed against the wall, more from the picture frames that held what looked like pictures from John and Mary's wedding, which were now in shreds, scattered across the living room. Mary's gone, then.

Half a trail of bloody footprints led into the bathroom, where John's quiet, drunken sounds were drifting from. Sherlock moved through the living room, glass crunching under his shoes.

"Oh, John," Sherlock breathed out when he saw his friend. John was sat against the bathtub, blood trickling steadily out of a large gash on his foot, his puke covering the floor surrounding the toilet. He knelt down and took the older man's face in his hands and patted his cheeks lightly.

"Wake up, John. It's me, I'm here." John moaned again as his head fell against Sherlock's shoulder. The detective reached for a flannel and wet it with cold water, squeezing some out onto John's head and dabbing his forehead with it. John opened his eyes blearily, focusing lazily on Sherlock.

"Shhher...lock..." he mumbled into Sherlock's shirt.

"Yes, John, it's me, look at me," he lifted John's face so he could look at him, "John, you need to stay awake right now. You're bleeding. I'm going to get you cleaned up, but you have to stay awake."

"Hurts," he muttered.

"Yes," he pushed John's hair back and wiped his face down again with the flannel. He sighed, his heart aching not only for his friend, but for himself, and for the unfortunate circumstances of their reunion. The feelings he worked so hard to bury worked their way to the surface under the safe cover of John's inebriation. "It does."

Sherlock wet the flannel again with warm water and moved to examine John's foot. After wiping off the excess blood he discovered it wasn't as bad as he originally thought and would heal quickly with antiseptic and gauze. He wrapped it and cleaned up John's puke before leaning over turning the knobs on the bath tub to draw a lukewarm bath.

"Come, John," he said, helping John to his feet. "You stink, you need a wash."

John just groaned as Sherlock slipped John's trousers and over his legs, leaving his pants on, and pulled his shirt over his head. "Come on," Sherlock grunted as John let him carry most of his weight. "One leg up, there you go, now the other, oh f--"

John giggled as he slipped and splashed the rest of the way into the bathtub. Sherlock wiped the water up off of the floor and laid a new bath mat down so he could kneel. He picked up a fresh flannel and soaked it in the water before rubbing soap into it and moving to wash John's back, moving in gentle circles over the strong muscles and warm skin, using his hand to cup enough water to rinse.

He took everything in while he worked, quietly counting every freckle on the expanse of John's pale skin, memorizing their places so later he could imagine placing kisses to each one. He paid special attention to John's scar, tracing it reverently with one finger before moving to his chest and arms. He scrubbed efficiently over his pectorals, dutifully avoiding brushing any sensitive spots too lightly and let himself take his fill. The light hair that covered a fairly small patch over his breastbone curled delightfully under the weight of the water and Sherlock barely had to contain himself from pressing his face again it and just breathing. He moved over to the doctor's arms, curving his hand gently around his bicep, let the suds run down to brush the soft skin on the inside of his elbow, down to his forearm, and gentle strong hands. God, how he wanted to be held by these hands, how often he thought about them. His palms were warm, but his fingertips were cooler, a bit of a contradiction but it felt right. Felt like John. Sherlock finally forced himself to snap out of his exploration. It wouldn't do to linger, in his friend's inebriated state. Even Sherlock knew that was a 'bit not good'. He finished off by washing John's hair, massaging his scalp gently, rinsing when he noticed the man start to drift off again.

"Come, John, let's get you to bed," he stood, holding out his hands for John to grasp before drying his smaller body quickly and leading him to the bedroom to help him into a new pair of boxers and a t-shirt. He pulled the covers to John's chin and straightened. "You need to sleep, John," he muttered quietly.

"Stay," came the doctor's soft voice. "Need you. Stay."

Sherlock hesitated, then stripped to his boxers and rummaged around before he found one of John's old t-shirts, turning it inside out so the seams wouldn't irritate his skin, and slipped it over his head before crawling into bed next to his friend, keeping a safe distance in between them. John, it seemed, had different ideas, and immediately rolled over and clumsily pulled the detective close.

He tensed, and then relaxed, sighing as he wrapped his own arms around his friend. John felt so small in his embrace, and not because of his height, or lack of it. He felt...fragile. Like if Sherlock held him any tighter he would shatter. He knew John would resent anyone thinking this of him, but Sherlock couldn't help but notice the weight loss, the extra grey hairs, the deep lines of exhaustion in his face, and more than anything, the sadness in his eyes belied by his drunken gaze.

Tomorrow John would be embarrassed, shrug the night off with an awkward cough and a muttered "thanks," but right now his friend needed him, wanted to be close to him, and he would not (could not) deny him that. John snuffled against him, his wet hair sticking up every which way, and Sherlock's heart lurched. He squeezed his eyes shut and let himself indulge in a soft kiss to the other man's forehead, but however small the gesture, it made John stir and tighten his grip on the detective.

"Mm..." came his quiet mutter, puffing soft, warm breath into Sherlock's neck,"love you."

Sherlock froze, his eyes locking onto the pitch black in front of him. He almost didn't hear his own whisper as it splintered the silence around him.

"I love you, too."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He heard the bottom door open as he came to terms with his plan, a bittersweet feeling blooming in his chest as he resolved that he would be exactly what John needed. He would be there for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is! Chapter two! Buckle in for Sherlock being tiny, John being enough trash to fill a Dumpster, and probably more pining than is healthy. 
> 
> Just a heads up, this chapter hasn't been thoroughly edited yet, but I wanted to make my deadline and post for you guys, so please excuse any errors. :-) 
> 
> Big kisses to my beta, [benschins](http://archiveofourown.org/users/benschins).
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> Oh, PS, the E rating begins to apply in this chapter, so if you don't like that sort of thing, be careful.

John woke slowly, his senses coming back to him subtly at first, until he felt the full onslaught of the consequences from the night before. He opened his eyes to a dim room, looking to the window to find there was a large blanket hung over it with thin rays of bright sunlight just sneaking through the sides of the opaque material. He smacked his chapped lips and grimaced at his parched mouth. He rolled over, groaning, his head pounding in protest. Paracetamol. He needed paracetamol, and...there it was. Sitting right next to a bottle of water. His eyebrows crinkled in confusion, then shot up to his hairline. He sat up and rubbed his face.

"Oh, shit," he groaned in to his hands. He'd called Sherlock. He remembered. Sort of. Had he...had Sherlock _bathed_ him? He did. He was almost sure of it.

He almost couldn't see straight for how pathetic he felt, calling his best friend up in a drunken state after a month of no contact. He hated what Sherlock must think of him, how he must pity him. John shrank with the shame.

He reached over and swallowed the pills on the nightstand before draining the entire bottle of water. He was still thirsty.

"More water?"

He didn't flinch at the deep voice. He should have suspected Sherlock was still here, keeping an eye on him, probably waiting around John woke up so he could tell him what an idiot he was. God knows he deserved it.

He held out his hand without looking up and closed his fingers around the cool plastic when it was handed to him. "Uh, yeah...thanks," he coughed and cleared his throat. "And...not just for the water, for..."

"It's quite alright, John," Sherlock interrupted, sparing him from relive the night before out loud. "Anything for a friend."

John cringed, unable to tell if that was a dig. He finally looked up at his friend and held his gaze briefly before breaking contact. Sherlock's face was fixed in the neutral, aloof expression he used when he was trying to hide what he really felt.

Disappointment, shame, disgust, pity, any of these would be appropriate reactions to your friend who you've barely seen in months, John thought.

"Um...you didn't have to come over. I'm a grown man, you know," he chuckled, trying for a bit of lightheartedness to ease the awkwardness between them.

"Except you probably would've choked on your own vomit and died, so you're welcome," which might've sounded harsh, but Sherlock's voice was tinted with soft amusement. A good sign.

Suddenly John's chest tightened and he felt tiny in Sherlock's presence, his eyes making a beeline from his friend's face to the comforter he was twisting in his hands.

There was a pregnant pause before Sherlock spoke again. "Would you like to talk about it?"

"I suspect you already know," John replied tightly.

"The baby isn't yours."

"Nailed it on the head."

The detective shuffled his feet awkwardly. "I'm...sorry?"

John snorted. "Me too. Sorry I got myself into this mess."

Sherlock sat on the bed and gave him a small smile. "I'm afraid it's partly my fault as well."

The smaller man shook his head. "I still married her."

"You loved her, you made a promise and you fulfilled it. Not even I could ask you to quit your life to come be my full-time blogger again," he finished with a playful smirk.

John snorted. "I wish you would've." He paused. "Look, thanks again for...everything. Dinner, tomorrow? We could go to Angelo's..." the ' _like old times_ ' was implied.

"Fine. Just text a time. I guess I'll just be off, then." Sherlock stood, picking an invisible piece of lint off his shirt.

He left quietly after a slightly awkward goodbye--a stiff pat on the back from Sherlock and a cough from John--leaving John to his own devices. He showered first, standing under the hot water and trying to remember what had happened last night. His foot had been throbbing all morning, and a quick inspection before his shower revealed an impressive gash on the insole. He sprayed more antiseptic on it and wrapped it again snugly.

Smashing, he remembered smashing things. Throwing an almost empty whiskey bottle against the wall, feeling both white hot rage and a biting satisfaction when it busted. It was all a bit blurry after that. He vaguely remembered vomiting, and then being helped out of his clothes, realizing through his drunken haze that it was Sherlock, and then he was washing him, and helping him into bed. God, he wished he could remember if he'd said anything stupid. If the twisting feeling in his gut was trustworthy at all, he was afraid he had.

He was halfway through his coffee before he froze in his tracks.

No.

His heart pounded and he broke out in a cold sweat. It was coming back to him. Being held in a pair of endless arms, wrapping himself around a tall, lithe body, breathing in the faint smell of expensive shampoo, something light and soft brushing his forehead, and just before falling into a deep, alcohol-induced sleep, telling Sherlock Holmes he loved him.

***

He didn't feel things like that. He didn't. He could force himself not to. Sherlock Holmes, the great Consulting Detective, a well-oiled machine, immune to what lesser minds succumbed to. Useless things like love and sentiment. It was only a matter of will, mind over matter, as it were. What John had said last night was a direct result of heartbreak, too much alcohol, and the fact that there was someone there to say it to. It was very likely that under such emotional stress, he might've said it to anyone.

Alright, well, maybe not anyone, but that still didn't mean it meant anything at all. John had told him he loved him before.

_I'm getting married tomorrow, and I want the two people I love most up there with me. Mary...and...you._

So he obviously meant it in the same way. Expressing affection for his best friend. Because John was straight and Sherlock wasn't like that. Except, he was. Detachment from feelings, sentiment...it was becoming obsolete. How very inconvenient. He couldn't have these ridiculous thoughts and feelings about John just...bouncing around all inside him however they pleased! But no matter how tightly he tried to shut them up in the coldest, darkest room in his mind palace, they always managed to spring free. Hateful.

Sherlock rolled over onto his side, his curls falling over his face as he nuzzled into the t-shirt of John's that he'd worn the previous night. He'd managed to nick it without John noticing (not hard when John was that hungover), and if he ever realized it was gone (which he doubted), he'd just say it was for an experiment. He'd crack some joke about John's memory declining in his older age, and John would roll his eyes and call him a cock, and then they'd smile at each other because none of the insults they slung were actually insults, and they loved it.

And Sherlock really did love it. They'd bicker and smile and flow around each other easily. Like, Sherlock realized begrudgingly, the orbit of the sun around the moon. Or Earth. Whatever.

He pressed John's shirt closer to his nose, letting the smell overtake his senses, memorizing it, locking them safely away in his mind. Past the faint mustiness of disuse was the slight smell of John's detergent, a hint of his deodorant, and a bit of sweat. It smelled divine. Sherlock was quite sure if he never smelled anything as long as he lived that wasn't the pure scent of John, he would be perfectly okay.

He woke abruptly to his mobile buzzing loudly on his nightstand. He grabbed it, scrunching his nose and hitting the Accept Call button when he saw John's name.

"Hello?" His grumbled, his voice deep and gravelly from sleep.

"Hey, Sherlock. Er, I was nearby and about to pick up some take out for dinner and I was wondering, well, if you're not busy, I might pop by? I can pick up your favorite from that Chinese place we used to go to."

Sherlock blinked, his mind still sleep addled from his nap, and looked down at John's shirt. He flushed, feeling as if he'd been caught cuddling the man's shirt who he was talking to that very moment.

"Sherlock?" He heard John say. "Um, it's okay if you can't, it was just--"

"Yes! Yes, um, I'm not busy," he replied hurriedly after realizing he'd been staring at John's shirt instead of talking.

"Great! There in thirty?"

"Mhm. Door's open."

By the time John arrived at 221B, Sherlock had survived the tidying of the sitting room and had successfully avoided having a panic attack about having a quiet dinner in. Alone. With John. He walked in, bags of Chinese food in hand, but his sagging shoulders showed of a heavier burden than takeout. Sherlock's brows furrowed in concern as he popped the cork on the bottle of wine he'd pulled out earlier.

"You look..." He paused, not sure how he wanted to end that sentence.

"Like shit?" John offered.

Sherlock shook his head tersely. "No...I mean, you do," he crooked a half smile to his friend to assure him he was joking,"I just meant, well, are you okay?"

"No," John deadpanned. "Are...are you?"

Sherlock blinked, momentarily startled by the question. He hadn't thought about it, really. He voiced this to John, who's eyes narrowed in concern, so he tried to provide something more substantial to appease his friend. "Fine, I suppose. Just...fine."

John didn't look like he bought it, but let it go anyway.

"I got you the hunan chicken or...the Mongolian beef. Not spicy, though, I know it upsets your stomach. Hope that's alright."

"Perfect," he poured their wine and glanced up. "It's a Riesling. Hope that'll do. Thought it'd be better than peach schnapps."

John laughed, a sweet giggle escaping his mouth. "You have peach schnapps?"

"Mm, it's actually not bad, but it's a souvenir from Janine. Something she left here."

At the mention of Janine's name, Sherlock felt the air turn thicker, John's stance becoming closed off and tense, and he suddenly felt the need to assure John how truly fake his relationship with Janine was. He knew John had been jealous when he thought he was dating her; he wasn't exactly _hiding_ the cold glares and clenched fists. He must admit, making John jealous had been part of why he didn't tell him it was a sham in the first place. Partly for fun, partly because there was something resentful inside of Sherlock that wanted John to know what it was like to see him move on with someone else, wanted him to know that if John could pretend to love a woman more than he loved his life at 221B with him to prove a point, then he could, too. In the end, though, he regretted not telling him from the start. Truthfully, making John hurt after what he'd already put him through drowned out the satisfaction of being right.

"John, I-I just want you to know...Janine and I, we never..." He trailed off weakly.

John barked out a rough, humorless laugh. "You don't owe me an explanation, Sherlock. You're a grown man. You can have...or not have...relations with, erm, whoever you want."

"I know that," the detective snapped. "I just...felt you should know."

"'Course, right. Sorry." John moved to sit on the couch, Sherlock hesitantly joining his side.

"It's alright. But I did need a replacement for the skull, and she wasn't terrible," he moved to grab his hunan chicken, a teasing tone in his voice.

John sensed the lighthearted banter and relaxed. "Oh, better than me?" He smiled around a bite of his lo mein.

Sherlock looked down and smiled softly at his knees. "No."

John swallowed, pausing, seeming to anticipate his next words.

"Sherlock, listen, um, I was wondering...if it would--I mean, if you wouldn't mind, if I could possibly. Move back in?" He paused for a beat, as if to let him consider, and went on, "Only temporarily, if you've, I dunno, grown accustomed to living alone? I can find my own place, I just...I can't live there anymore. She's just everywhere and I can't do it anymore. But I promise I'll find a place as soon as possible. So...yeah."

Sherlock sucked in a thoughtful breath and set his carton on the coffee table, turning to John. "John, you are welcome here, always. This is your home as much as mine. And the only reason you should be thinking about finding your own flat is if you want to. I am more than happy to have you here as long as you like, or don't like. I assure you I would rather live with no one else, and that includes myself."

If Sherlock saw John's eyes shining with unshed tears, he didn't say. John smiled at him softly, and cleared his throat. "Th-thank you. Thank you, Sherlock. That means more to me than you know. I'll, um...it might a couple of days. I need to deal with some things first."

"Take as long as you need, John. More wine?"

***

John waited until he was in the protective domicile of his bathroom, letting the room steam up while he set the water to as hot as he could take it, and stepping into the spray before he let his chest collapse with the weight of Sherlock. He was in him, everywhere, in every crevice of his body, in his veins, in his arteries, in his cells, in his very matter. The man was in his chest like he was replacing his heart, squeezing it out until it exploded so that he could take its place, working himself into the safe place between John's ribs, taking over as his lifeline.

He drank in every move Sherlock made that night over Chinese and wine--every word he spoke, how his lips shaped them, how his throat moved around his swallows, every minuscule sweep of his eyelashes across his pale cheeks--and John could barely breath. A low burn of arousal glowed deep inside of him just from being so close to man, finally able to just sit and watch him after so long, with only the warmth of their comfortable companionship preventing it from blooming into full blown _want_.

Here, though, back in his hateful suburb house where he fell out of love with a woman he found he barely knew, in the privacy of the steam that cocooned around his body, he allowed his hand to trail down and cup himself, already half hard, and think about Sherlock. He took his time, leaning back against the shower wall, pushing his hips slowly into the slippery, tight ring he made with his hand, picturing planes of white skin, a mess of dark, curly hair, and cupid's bow lips all over his body. He pictured a slow, sweet grin, violinist's fingers tracing every curve of his body, dipping into crevices and dancing over his muscles. He imagined running his own hands down mile long legs and sweet, low moans singing in his ears. A softly muttered, "I love you, John" and then he was falling over the edge with Sherlock's name on his tongue.

That's all it would ever be, he realized. Imaginings. A Sherlock in his head who couldn't feel his hands on his skin or lips against his own. His legs gave out suddenly, shaking against the weight of knowing he'd never have him, knowing that if there ever was a chance, John had fucked it up. He fucked it up the day he said "I do" to that stranger at the alter. His eyes stung. Sherlock said he could move back in. Not only that, he _wanted_ him to, wanted to be John's friend after everything. After marrying a woman who shot him--killed him, technically--after still staying with her, after not contacting him for weeks after the man literally killed for him. And then to top it all off, he got roaring drunk and Sherlock was there to take care of him, and even though it was true, he'd told him he loved him like a drunken fool, and the man still happily accepted him in his home, into his life.

Tears spilled over onto John's face, catching in his eyelashes, his chest heaving with silent sobs. He didn't deserve Sherlock. He could spend the rest of his life proving that he did, and he never would. His lips trembled as choked off whimpers escaped his mouth, pinching his eyes to try to stop the flow of tears, but hard as he might try, they kept coming, years of bottled up love, grief and anger finally flooding over. He loved him so much, and right now, he thought he might choke on it, that it would make his heart stop. He knew that when he was done, he could tap it down, be a good friend for Sherlock, and be content and happy that he didn't lose him forever. He needed to let himself shatter so he could finally start picking up the pieces. The shower ran cold, but John couldn't move for the sobs wracking his body and the thought of what could've been.

Eventually, his tears dried and the heavy exhaustion that follows an emotional purge set in, John stood on shaky legs and dragged himself to his bed, his eyes drifting shut before his head hit the pillow. He dreamed of a warm, hard body wrapped in his arms, and sage-scented, dark curls tickling his nose.

***

His stomach had been in knots for two days, his hands were probably going to fall off from wringing them so frequently, and even he felt sympathy for the ears that were the victims of his latest distraction. Sherlock couldn't think, couldn't breath, couldn't focus on _anything_ other than John moving back into Baker Street. He would be here soon, within the day, and Sherlock spent the entire day cleaning the flat, throwing out old experiments, even _dusting_ to distract his heart from trying to pound itself out of his chest. He was delighted that John was moving back in (really, he was), but what he didn't take into account until the realization made him shoot straight up out of bed was how he would ever manage to hide his feelings for John now that he was coming back. He hadn't even been able to resist telling the man he _loved_ him, for godssake, never mind if he'd heard it or not.

No. No, no, no. Sherlock had more control than this. His entire life, he had dominion over his body and emotions. He was capable of keeping his feelings tamped down no matter how hard they wanted to radiate out of him in the presence of John. He could do that for John.

So John would come back, and they would live together, and Sherlock would be in love him but never tell him. Because he did love him, and John deserved a home and a friend he felt comfortable around. After everything that he'd been through, Sherlock would give him this. All of the nervousness was just in anticipation of John's arrival. He would get there, and they would fall into companionable domesticity and everything would be fine. Sherlock would be fine. He would live off John's indigo gaze, platonic touches, and after-case adrenaline-fueled laughs. He could be happy with that. The sharp stab would become a bit duller every time he looked at the man over the years, and the licking flames of his love and desire would eventually die down into a warm ember, and it would be bearable, and he would accept it. He would love John how John wished to be loved, as a friend, a companion, someone to help him through the hard days and enjoy the good ones. And it would be a good life, just the two of them.

He heard the bottom door open as he came to terms with his plan, a bittersweet feeling blooming in his chest as he resolved that he would be exactly what John needed. He would be there for him. Always.

John finally stepped onto the landing and walked through the threshold of 221B with two large duffle bags in hand. Sherlock walked toward him, feeling a smile spreading along his face, and stopped directly in front of him. He caught John's gaze and held it, his indigo eyes staring back at him with what looked like relief. The shorter man sighed, and dropped his bags.

"C'mere," he stepped forward at the same time Sherlock did, and stood on his toes, wrapping an arm around Sherlock's neck. Sherlock turned his face in toward John's skin and wound his arms tightly around his waist.

He pulled back, staring at his feet to hide his growing smile before glancing back up to John's face.

"Welcome home."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aww, ending on happy notes :’-) Don't worry, they're still going to be sad for a little while before everything irons out. They'll get there, though! Watch out for chapter three next week. I appreciate feedback! Kudos and comments are always welcome. See you next week <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is what he'd missed most. Admittedly, he'd thought that about every aspect of their lives he'd experienced since coming back to Baker Street, but this. Mid mornings, going about their respective routines but being together, chatting amiably and content when they weren't, clipped sarcastic jokes from Sherlock and John smiling at him over his mug. This is what he'd craved most the past three years, the rare quiet in between cases.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my God, so, I'm definitely late. Four days to be exact. I am so sorry! This past week was just a lot to deal with, but I pulled through and I hope this chapter is good enough to make up for it! Enjoy, pups. xx

They fell back in easily with each other. John went to work at the surgery three days a week and Sherlock did experiments. They took cases together, John wrote about them, and Sherlock grumpily scraped at his violin to show his disproval for the cheesy titles John came up with. Mrs. Hudson dusted, John force-fed Sherlock, and and it was almost like there wasn't three years of separation behind them.

John didn't bring much back from his life with Mary. Clothes, a few personal things such as books, but nothing to indicate he felt sentimental toward that period in his life. Sherlock's observations of this made his shoulders relax a bit and he let himself feel slightly more secure in the permanency of John's stay. Losing him again would be unbearable.

This time, if John left, he wasn't sure even the purest opium would be able to numb his mind enough to forget. His stint in the drug den after John got married, no matter how much he'd insisted it was for a case, was partly because he was trying to cope. Then, the high easily covered up the awful, ceaseless ache of missing John that penetrated his bones. Of the jealousy that ate at him, constantly. That he was with her, holding her, laughing with her. But after she'd shot him and he'd done everything after that to keep her safe so that John could attempt to be happy with her, he silently broke that promise. He would only be there for John, ever, and if that meant keeping Mary out of jail so that John could live a happy life with her, he would do it, but only for him. He had to admit, despite all the data that told him otherwise, that he was afraid this was only a rough patch, a separation that would make them realize how stupid they were that they were apart, and they'd eventually reunite in a passionate flurry of hugs and tears and kisses...

But the first time they got in an argument (fingers in the microwave), John abruptly cut off his stream of irritated curses and giggled, his indigo eyes lighting up with a familiar glint of mischief mixed with joy that Sherlock hadn't seen there since before he fell. John's relief seemed to show physically, the dark circles under his eyes fading, and he was lighter on his feet, walking around with a bounce in his step. Sherlock had chuckled back and conceded to at least put the fingers in a container instead of on one of their dinner plates. John smiled, and fondly ruffled Sherlock's hair, which scandalized the detective just enough to gasp and rush to the mirror to fix it, John chuckling and tossing a muttered "Vain prat," in his general direction. Sherlock hadn't tried to hide his smile.

They touched frequently, despite an odd tension between them that suggested they needed to talk about something, but they ignored it, opting to fill their conversation with talk about cases, the three pounds Mycroft has gained, Mrs. Hudson's new blueberry scone recipe, and once, memorably, John's mental wellbeing after he'd sent off the divorce papers. It was really was like old times. Almost. Sherlock felt as if John wanted to tell him something. He'd often inquire after him while they sat in their respective chairs in the evening, reading their respective books, softly calling out "Sherlock?" over the space in between them. Sherlock would always draw himself from his book and look up, ears threatening to pink at the vision of a sleepy soft, content John who had a question sparkling in his deep eyes.

"Yes, John?" He'd glance over him, only ever observing that he'd worn the same jeans as the day previous or that he'd had a patient with an orange cat.

John would only smile back, backing away from the edge of what he wanted to say, curling back into himself, and mutter,"Nothing."

And Sherlock would never push him, and then shortly after John would sigh and say goodnight, and head up to bed with a parting brush to the back of Sherlock's neck, that never failed to tingle for the rest of the night. Sherlock was sure he had the imprint of John's hand visibly burned onto his skin. He looked, in fact, and was mildly disappointed to find that that back of his neck was as unmarred as ever.

It was no different tonight, Sherlock trying to rub off the tingling on the back of his neck before he turned the knobs on the shower and stepped under the spray. A soft sigh expelled from him as the hot water kneaded his back while he tried to figure out what John could possibly want to tell him. There was, of course, the anxious niggling in the back of his mind that tried to convince him that John wanted to tell him he needed to find his own flat, or worse, go back to Mary, even though John had more than happily signed the divorce papers and sent them off with a smile on his face. He was almost completely confident that John really was staying. The doctor had even gone so far as to replace Mary with him as his emergency contact, posted about it on his blog, in fact, done everything to show that he wasn't leaving except for saying it directly to Sherlock. Could he blame him, though? Maybe he wasn't leaving any time soon, but what about when he fell in love again? Wanted to get married again? He could not and would not hold that to John, even if Sherlock would fall apart when this happened. He would cross that bridge when he got there. So, he was slightly more convinced that John was staying. As for ideas as to what John was trying to tell him, he was left with none. He shut the water off, drying off and flopping into bed naked, feeling frustrated, and worse, curious. He huffed into the darkness. He hated not knowing.

***

John opened his eyes into the diluted light of his room at Baker Street, his lips pulling back over his teeth in a sleepy grin. He'd been back for two weeks now, and every time he woke up in his old bed, he was mildly surprised to find that it hadn't all been a dream, that surely he'd turn over and Mary would be there, and the warm feeling in his chest would disappear and be replaced by ice cold dread. It never happened, though. He really was back at Baker Street with Sherlock, where he belonged. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands and swung his feet over the side of the bed, heading downstairs to flip on the kettle, looking forward to seeing Sherlock in his mid-morning state, curls untamed, his scarlet robe settled nicely across his strong shoulders.

This morning he was sitting on the couch, feet curled underneath him, the crossword spread out in front of him and a mug of tea in his hand.

"Tea's in the kitchen," he gestured to the kitchen without looking up from his crossword.

John threaded his fingers through his graying hair, reluctant to look away from Sherlock, who was looking like the picture of contentment with his sleep-tousled curls, tapping the end of his pen thoughtfully against his full lips. Sherlock's eyes leapt from his crossword to John's face.

"I could have sworn I said that out loud. Tea's in the kitchen, John." His eyebrows knitted together slightly, interrupting his endlessly smooth skin by forming a wickedly endearing wrinkle just between them. John wanted terribly to bend down and kiss it away. Instead, he cleared his throat and looked away, chuckling nervously.

"Uh, yeah you did, just zoned out there for a sec." He turned and walked to the kitchen, picking up his still steaming mug of tea, delightfully noticing that Sherlock still made it to perfection. He walked back into the sitting room, gathering the pages of the newspaper that Sherlock was finished with, and sat in his chair.

"Thanks for the tea," he sipped it happily as he scanned the different articles.

Sherlock hummed. "Who is 007 actor blank Connery?"

"Sean? Sean Connery?" John looked at the detective, eyebrows shooting to his hairline. "Tell me you know who Sean Connery is."

Sherlock's curls swished as he shook his head. "Nope," he replied, enunciating the "p", and filled out his answer.

John flipped his paper down and leaned forward. "Sherlock he's James Bond! Like, the James Bond."

"He's a fictional character made up to entertain simpler minds with unrealistic MI6 agent field work and carefully choreographed fight sequences to show off his arse in perfectly tailored trousers, he's nothing special." He jotted down another answer.

Despite being offended on his taste in movies, John laughed. "Sounds like you need to be educated. Bond and Chinese tonight?"

Sherlock dramatically sighed and rolled his eyes, as if it was the biggest inconvenience for him to eat takeout and watch a movie. John realized he probably truly thought it was. "Fine, if you insist on poisoning my mind with pointless drivel."

"I do. What if you have a case one day that requires you to have full knowledge of James Bond?"

"That's what I have you for," Sherlock wrote another answer down, a smirk pulling at his lips.

John chuckled and settled back with his paper and tea as a companionable silence fell over them. This. This is what he'd missed most. Admittedly, he'd thought that about every aspect of their lives he'd experienced since coming back to Baker Street, but this. Mid mornings, going about their respective routines but being together, chatting amiably and content when they weren't, clipped sarcastic jokes from Sherlock and John smiling at him over his mug. This is what he'd craved most the past three years, the rare quiet in between cases. Not because it _was_ quiet, though, Lord knows it wasn't the quiet he loved, but them, Sherlock and John, together, knowing that when they were bored, the perfect case would come along, and they'd solve it over a series of sleepless nights and cold leftovers, and then they'd be doing this again, recharging in each other's company before the next brilliant case snagged the detective's attention and they were off again.

Yes, he could be happy with this for a long, long time.

***

Sherlock couldn't seem to shake his good mood. Terribly inconvenient, but John had suggested takeout and a movie, and even though Sherlock couldn't really care less about James Bond, he couldn't care _more_ about John Watson. Truth be told, he looked forward to these nights. These were the rare, special nights where he could get away with sitting a little too close to John, who would usually put his arm around the back of the couch, and Sherlock would revel in the heat he could feel from it on his back. On these nights, Sherlock could "accidentally" fall asleep on John's shoulder, and wake up to John's warm hand rubbing his arm and whispering,"Let's get you to your bed, Sherlock."

On these nights, Sherlock couldn't be more grateful for his limited knowledge of popular culture. And if on the rare occasion that he had seen _Pulp Fiction_ , or _Return of the Jedi_ , or whatever movie popped into John's head, he lied a bit and said,"No, I've never even heard of that in my life and it sounds ridiculous," who could blame him?

John got back with the takeout a little after eight, popping in the DVD and letting the previews play while he set out their cartons. Sherlock waited until he sat down to move from his experiment, plopping down next to him and effectively trapping John in the corner of the sofa. He munched slowly on his food, and John set a cold beer out in front of him before clicking play. Sherlock forced himself to get through the opening credits before tearing his disinterested gaze away from the screen to nurse his beer and side-eye stare at John, who was completely enraptured in the film. Sherlock leaned slowly against him, and if John noticed, he didn't say.

John paused for a short intermission about halfway in, jumping up to get more beers from the fridge, jolting Sherlock from his trance, the side of his body that had been pressed up against John feeling suddenly dreadfully cold. He all but guzzled down his second beer, lifting the bottle to his lips in a nervous tick every time John shifted against him, or chuckled at a clever line in the movie. By the time he was done, he was feeling slightly dizzy, definitely drowsy and his cheeks felt significantly warmer. John's arm shifted a bit closer behind him, the skin of his forearm brushing softly against the back of Sherlock's neck, making a shiver run down his spine. John noticed and turned, looking Sherlock over with casual concern.

"You cold?" he asked, moving to get a blanket.

Sherlock grasped the material of his white t-shirt, stopping him. "No, no, I'm fine. Watch the movie."

John smiled. "That's very noble of you Sherlock but you've got goosebumps," he gently lifted Sherlock's arm to show him before standing to grab the blanket hanging over the back of his chair. He settled back into his spot and draped the blanket over them, putting his arm back around Sherlock, except instead of keeping it firmly in place on the back of the couch, he draped it nonchalantly over his shoulders. Sherlock's eyes widened, but he gave no other indicator that he'd even noticed. He pretended to momentarily be engrossed in what was happening in the film. He watched for five minutes, not actually watching, and let his gaze slide sideways to look at John. He was watching intently, seemingly unaware that Sherlock's heart was about to pound of his chest. Good.

Towards the end of the film, Sherlock's eyelids were drooping, and he gave in, letting his head fall to John's firm shoulder. The older man didn't acknowledge the action, just barely tightened his arm around Sherlock's shoulders, and continued to pay close attention to his movie. Sherlock felt relaxed, so relaxed, and let himself doze off.

"Sherlock," the hushed whisper came, penetrating his sleep-addled mind.

"Sherlock," it came again, a bit more insistently, with a gentle shake.

His eyes opened slowly, coming to rest on the TV screen, which was off, the only source of light coming from the lamp on his desk. He was settled solidly against John's frame, one of the doctor's arms still draped over his shoulders. He looked up, bleary eyed, into John's sleepy face. Had he dozed off too?

"John." His voice came, scratchy and low.

A lazy smile spread across John's face. "There he is. We dozed off. Guess the movie wasn't as interesting as I'd led on."

"Even less so," came the detective's light reply.

John snorted, and rubbed Sherlock's shoulder. "Well, I'm off to bed. G'night."

And then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, he titled Sherlock's head up, and leaned in, bumping their noses together, close enough that Sherlock could feel his hot breath on his lips, and slammed to a full stop. John's eyes flew open, looking momentarily into Sherlock's shocked ones staring back at him, and jerked back, as if he'd been struck.

"Oh, fuck." He stood up and began to pace, rubbing his eyes roughly with the heels of his hands. "Ohhh, Jesus fuck Almighty, Sherlock, I-I'm so sorry, I don't know what came over me, I'm just--Sherlock...?"

Sherlock didn't move. He sat there, utterly in shock. He didn't think he could move if he wanted to. John had almost kissed him. Just now. As if they'd been doing it for ages. His mouth was dry, he couldn't swallow, he couldn't breath, and his chest felt like an elephant was dancing on it. He tried to make his lips move into shapes of words, tried to say something, anything to assure John that he didn't mind, that it was no big deal, but no noise came out. He just stared and blinked, and tried to breath. Because John had almost kissed him and now they were both panicking.

"Jesus. Sherlock, that was. I'm sorry. I really am. F--I'm gonna. I just. Going to take a walk." He stalked across the room, shoved his feet into his shoes, and all but ran out of the door, his jacket barely on one arm.

The door slammed and Sherlock let out a sob in a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, his chest heaving as his vision blurred with tears.

This was it. John was leaving him. For good.

He blamed himself. He knew John was the one to make the move, but he'd been instigating it, hadn't he? Desperately looking for opportunities to get into his space, to touch him, to barely cross the line of not-platonic. And John had unknowingly fallen into it, caught up in the moment, sleep addled, with a light haze of alcohol clouding his judgement. Now John was going to leave because Sherlock couldn't grasp onto some self control and keep his desperate, needy hands off. He could never forgive himself. John had stayed his friend through everything. Through his disgusting experiments, through his tantrums, through his manic deductions, through his own death...through all his lies. John wouldn't stay after this.

Sherlock choked another quiet sob out, forcing back the tears stinging his eyes, his breath uneven and loud in his ears. Which is probably why he hadn't heard the foot steps.

He startled when John sat back down next to him and gathered him in his arms, desperately trying to reel in his emotions, but unable, tears beginning to fall despite his hardest attempts to will them to stop.

"John," he choked out into the doctor's neck, his voiced croaky and weak.

"Sherlock, shh," John rubbed his back, trying to calm him.

"John, p-please, you don't have to go. I'm sorry," he gripped the back of John's t-shirt, pushing his face further into the man's neck.

John's hands stroked through his hair. "Wh--you're sorry? Why are you sorry?"

"B-because I've been--needy. And desperate and an idiot and I'm sorry."

John pulled away, holding Sherlock by his shoulders and looked heatedly into his eyes. "Sherlock. Christ--Sherlock, you haven't been...needy, or, or anything. You've been taking care of me! I was a mess, and you took me in, and then I go and try to take even further advantage of you. I could not be a bigger arsehole. I thought you would _want_ me to leave."

Sherlock's face fell. "Of course I don't want you to leave, John. The last time you left...I was...it was awful. But after everything I've put you through...if you wanted to leave again, I'd deserve it, John."

John pulled Sherlock to him again and cupped the back of his head, a lump forming in his throat. "Oh, God. Oh my God. Sherlock...we've...we've put each other through a lot. Enough to make us even, yeah? And not on purpose. We just...haven't got it right."

Sherlock's arms tightened around his middle. "What's right, John? What's right?"

"We are." John cupped the detective's face, and tilted it up, rubbing his thumbs along ivory cheekbones. "We are, Sherlock, we're right." He swiped through tear tracks, leaning down to run the tip of his nose over one of Sherlock's eyebrows, stopping to rest at a temple, his lips brushing the top of the man's cheek when he whispered again,"We are."

Sherlock tilted his head up to look into John's indigo eyes, his own still shiny with tears, lips parted slightly while his heart pounded in his chest. John's hands were still caressing his face, and he could feel his breath against his cheek. John wanted this. John wanted him. He hesitated for only a split second before he gasped, and swooped in to press his parted lips against John's, lingering for a moment before pulling back, a thin string of saliva holding on for just a second longer, still connecting them, before disappearing. Sherlock's eyes were wide, his cheeks pinking, hoping he'd done the right thing, that he hadn't risked his only friend.

John proved him right barely a moment later, a strangled "Sherlock," stuttering out of his mouth before crushing his mouth back against the detective's, threading his fingers into dark hair as Sherlock mewled against his lips. Their mouths moved softly together, stroking against each other gently, soft wet smacks penetrating the sound of their breathing. John's tongue flicked out against Sherlock's lips, making the younger man whimper, before hesitantly pulling away. Sherlock's lips tingled lightly, and he savored John's fingers in his hair, leaning forward to rest his nose against John's cheek. The hand that wasn't occupied with Sherlock's hair moved to tighten around his back, filling Sherlock's chest with an intense warmth.

"C'mon," he whispered against Sherlock's hair. "Let's go to sleep."

Sherlock nodded, and let John help him to his feet, keeping one arm around his waist while they walked the short distance to his room. He stripped his robe and flannel pajama pants off, leaving himself in his t-shirt and boxers before crawling into his bed.

"Don't go," his hand shot out to gently grasp John's arm as he started to move into the bathroom.

"Wasn't going to," the doctor replied, placing a hand gently over Sherlock's. "Just going to use the loo."

John came out a moment later, also stripped to his boxers and t-shirt, before turning off the lamp and crawling into bed next to Sherlock, opening his arms. The younger man immediately turned and pressed his lithe body tightly into the embrace, clinging to him, pushing his curly head under the doctor's chin. John pressed a kiss into the dark curls, and exhaled a sigh of relief. Sherlock's eyes drifted shut, his body melting into the circle of John's arms, the emotional output of the night washing over him, leaving him drained and exhausted.

"I'm scared," his lips whispered against the collar of the man's white t-shirt."

"Me too, Sherlock," John traced his fingers down the knobs of his spine. "But we're okay. I'm right here, and I'll make sure we're okay. Do you trust me?"

Sherlock's heart beat three times in his chest, but it could've filled an eternity. Time slowed to a subjective crawl, and he nodded.

"I trust you, John."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally these two idiots are working it out! I hope you liked it. This was the hardest chapter to write so far, but I think it turned out okay! :-) I'm hoping to post on schedule next week, I'm hoping to whip out chapter four really quickly and get to work on my next project! Only one chapter left! As always, comments and kudos are welcomed happily. <3


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whatever it had taken to get here...it had all been worth it, to wake up with the smell of Sherlock in his nose and the beat of his heart thudding against his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter!! Finally! At least it's only two days late instead of four! Sorry for being late again, I just wanted to make sure this fic went out with a bang. Thanks for sticking around. I hope you like it!

Warmth. That was the first thing he noticed. Warmth in his chest, warmth emanating from the body wrapped in his arms. John breathed in the smell of the bed of silky curls his nose was buried in and tightened his arms around Sherlock's middle. His eyelashes fluttered open, and he couldn't stop the grin that split across his face. He thought he'd never have this, this brilliant gangly detective wrapped serenely in his arms. He'd gone through a lot-- _both_ of them had gone through a lot--to finally be here, with each other. _It should have always been like this_ , John thought. No use dwelling on the past, though. Whatever it had taken to get here...it had all been worth it, to wake up with the smell of Sherlock in his nose and the beat of his heart thudding against his chest. He tilted his head down and brushed his lips across the nape of Sherlock's pale neck, huffing out a happy sigh.

"John?" Sherlock stirred, and turned his head, looking for John in his peripheral vision.

"Mm. I'm here," He dropped kisses on the freckles he could reach, a path leading up toward's Sherlock's ear.

"Oh, good," he sighed, turning over completely, interrupting John's trail of kisses to wrap his arms around his middle, raising his head to peck him on the lips. He shoved his nose into the space between John's neck and shoulder. "I was afraid you weren't real...thought it was a dream," he admitted, his voice muffled and soft.

"Mm, I wasn't," John dropped another kiss to his hair.

Sherlock looked up again. "No?"

"No. My dreams are never that good." His eyes travelled to Sherlock's lips, his hand slipping into his inky hair to massage his scalp.

Sherlock snorted. "Corny doesn't suit you."

John chuckled. "No?" He leaned down to whisper in Sherlock's ear,"How about...dirty?"

Sherlock's breath caught in his throat. "What--"

"I hope not," John interrupted, his eyes lit up with mirth,"because I need a shower. And," he paused, brushing a curl from Sherlock's furrowed brow,"I was wondering if maybe you want to join me."

"I don't like being in the company of a tease," he said with a pout, which John promptly kissed off of his face, cupping his jaw and flicking his tongue against Sherlock's lips, which happily opened, content to let John explore. Their tongues wrapped together and Sherlock let out a quiet, breathy sound, melting into John, who abruptly pulled back with a suck to his bottom lip.

"Oh, that's all right. I don't plan on teasing anymore," John winked and crawled out of bed.

Sherlock rolled his eyes despite the flush that warmed his face, getting up and stripping off his shirt just as John was stepping into the shower.

"You coming?" came John's voice over the drone of the spray. Sherlock answered by opening the shower door and stepping in, immediately settling in behind him and wrapping his arms around his waist. John hummed and tilted his head to press a kiss to Sherlock's throat.

"So," he said after a moment,"I wanted to talk."

Sherlock chest tightened, and muscles tensed. Was John already regretting this, trying to let him down easy? His worries were soothed quickly, though, by John turning in his arms and tilting his head up to smack a kiss to his lips.

"Hey," he said,"stay right here. Look at me. I want you. I want us. Okay? I said you could trust me. Don't get ahead of yourself in there," he ended by tapping his index finger against Sherlock's forehead.

Sherlock's shoulders relaxed and he leaned over, wrapping John tightly in his arms and pressing his nose into his damp hairline. "Okay," he whispered.

John leaned over and grabbed Sherlock's body wash, squeezing some into his hand and lathering it against Sherlock's back, rubbing in soothing circles as he washed.

"All I wanted to talk about was...how far you want to go with this. Setting your boundaries, I suppose. That okay?"

Sherlock nodded against his neck while John's soapy hands wandered to his sides and down his arms. "I want everything, John," his voice dropped to a hushed whisper,"Everything."

"Alright," John pulled back enough to rub soap into Sherlock's chest,"that being said, I'd like to know if, well, if..."

"Yes," Sherlock looked at his feet,"Yes, I-I'm a...virgin."

John lifted Sherlock's gaze to his own with two gentle fingers under his chin. "Hey, that's fine. It's all fine, remember? We'll go as slow as you want. We don't have to do anything, if you decide you don't want to." He turned him towards the spray to rinse off his soapy body and tilted his back to massage warm water into his hair before pouring shampoo into his hand and starting on his inky hair.

Sherlock was quiet for a moment, savoring the feel of John's fingers in his hair, and whimpered softly when he started to massage his scalp, pleasure tingling down his spine and settling warmly in his groin.

"Aren't we doing something right now?" he asked, soft innocence tinting his voice.

John rinsed the shampoo from his hair and rubbed the conditioner in, considering the question. "Um, not necessarily. This is...intimacy. Just me and you, being together. Which is a part of sex, too, but this is a little less intense." His fingers travelled to the bottom of Sherlock's skull, kneading firmly, making a quiet moan escape his lips. "But like I said," John continued, and dropped a kiss to his shoulder,"we don't have to do anything beyond this."

"Nn, John...I wa...I want to," Sherlock leaned back, quickly rinsing his hair, before leaning down and pressing a deep kiss to John's mouth, stepping closer so that his half hard cock brushed his stomach. He pulled back and pressed their foreheads together while John settled his hands on his hips. "I want to. You have...no idea..."

John's hands tightened minutely on his hips, tilting his head up to breath directly against Sherlock's lips,"Oh, yes I do." He reached behind him to shut the water off, helping Sherlock step out on wobbly knees before reaching for a towel and drying him thoroughly, touching him tenderly, but dragging his gaze down his long, pale body with unmistakeable heat in his eyes. He threw the towel onto the floor after running it over his own body, and paused, thumbing the round scar in the middle of his chest, raising his head to look Sherlock in the eye.

"You really want this?" He asked softly, sweeping his thumb over an ivory cheekbone. Sherlock answered by nodding and grasping his hands, pulling him back into the bedroom.

He pushed him to the bed and straddled his strong thighs, John's hands coming up to roam over his back, his fingers gently tracing the scars he'd earned from his time away. They tightened against his skin, his breath becoming shallow.

"I'm sorry," his voice was ragged and low.

Sherlock kissed his cheek and threaded his fingers through John's greying hair. "It's not your fault, John."

John nodded against his neck. "If I'd never...if we'd never--"

"Met?" Sherlock interrupted, anger filling his voice as he pulled back. "John, listen well, because I will only say this once. If not for your introduction into my life, I would not be here, and not because of Moriarty, or any other criminal. It would've have been because of _me_. I _shouldn't_ be here, but the universe dropped you in my lap and everything I've done since has been for you. Do not try to tell me I have felt that pain through any fault of yours because I assure you, if not for you, I wouldn't have lived to feel it. You killed for me the first day you knew me. You showed me I was worth something. You're worth _everything_." His voice wavered as he ended, his lip trembling.

John sucked in a ragged gasp and pulled Sherlock's mouth roughly to his, their lips dragging together wetly as their tongues embraced. John nipped Sherlock's lip and tightened his arms under his bum before bodily lifting him off of his lap and flipping him onto the bed. Sherlock scooted back and laid his head against the pillows, his arms reaching out for John as he crawled up the lithe body, licking and nipping at his skin.

Sherlock spread his legs, making space for John to settle between them and press their crotches together, both of them gasping as they ground together, Sherlock winding his arms tightly about John's broad shoulders. He caught Sherlock's mouth in another searing kiss, and pulled back, tenderly rubbing his thumb against his eyebrow, taking his fill of soft, flustered, pink-cheeked detective.

"What do you want?" he growled against plump, kiss-swollen bow lips.

"Inside," came Sherlock's reply in a hot huff of air,"I want you inside me."

John's breath hitched, and he rocked his hips, pre-cum leaking onto Sherlock's cock as his own added to the slickness, making the friction smooth and delicious. John kissed down Sherlock's neck, his tongue darting out to lick at freckles and stopping every so often to suck a bright red mark into his porcelain skin.

"You taste so good," he breathed,"Wanna taste you all over."

Sherlock's hands tightened on his arse where they'd travelled, his spit-shiny lips opening in a gasp. "So do it," he whined as John sucked a mark on his collarbone. John leaned up and kissed him again, and Sherlock didn't hesitate to bite playfully at his lips before shoving his tongue hotly into his mouth and pulling away when John pinched at his left nipple.

"John..." he whimpered, his hips bucking up against John's.

John's mouth dipped down to the nipple, nibbling at first, then sucking it into his mouth, his lips making smacking, wet noises against Sherlock's skin. Sherlock moaned and arched his back, his toes curling into the sheets.

"God, so sensitive," John's mouth travelled low across his chest to the other nipple, giving it the same treatment before moving south, sucking open mouthed kisses down Sherlock's torso until his chin bumped the head of his cock. He looked down, breathing hotly against the wet, pink head. His tongue darted out and licked the slit, tasting the pre-cum that never seemed to stop leaking.

John groaned before pressing a kiss to the tip,"So wet, you're so wet for me."

A strangled sob burst out of Sherlock's chest when John licked down the length and then took him completely in his mouth. To John's delight, he realized most of it fit quite easily, only having to wrap two fingers and his thumb around the base as he bobbed, Sherlock arching and crying out above him. John pulled off with a pop, a string of saliva threading from his lip to the head that disappeared when he moved to lay kisses against the shaft, going further until he reached Sherlock's balls, rolling them with his tongue before moving to kiss at his perineum.

Sherlock's hips lifted of the bed, and John took the opportunity to position his shoulders under his knees, the rest of his long legs draped down the length of his back, his toes grappling at the top of John's backside as they curled while John sucked and kissed, moving his hands to pull Sherlock's cheeks apart to reveal his furrowed, pink hole.

"Okay?" he paused, not sure if this was something Sherlock wanted to do, despite the man clawing at his own hair, as his mottled chest heaved.

"Please!" he begged,"John, oh my God, please..." His breath altered, coming quick and shallow and John's eyes filled with concern.

"Sherlock, hey," he patted his thigh,"look at me," he said firmly.

Sherlock sat up on his elbows and continued to hyperventilate as he looked down at John. "S'too much. Too much," his head fell backwards as John soothingly rubbed his leg. "I want it, John, I want it!"

"Shhh," John pressed a chaste kiss to inside of his thigh,"Sherlock, take deep breaths for me, okay? I'm right here. Look at me, love. I'm right here." He waited until Sherlock looked at him. "Do you want to stop?" He asked slowly.

Sherlock frantically shook his head. "Please! Please don't stop..."

"Okay, okay, we'll keep going, but I need you to relax. Deep breaths, that's it," John's shoulders relaxed as Sherlock's breaths deepened and his body melted back into the mattress. "Good, very good, you're so beautiful," he pressed another kiss to his thigh as Sherlock relaxed. "Brilliant," he muttered into his soft skin. He let Sherlock breath for a few moments while he nuzzled at the line between his thigh and groin.

"You okay?" he asked softly. Sherlock's arm moved to drape over his face, his body trembling. John moved from his spot under his legs and leaned up to kiss his cheek. "Hm?"

Sherlock moved his arm away, looking at John with glossy, red eyes. "I'm okay," he said with a small smile.

"Sure?" John asked, worry furrowing his brow.

Sherlock nodded. "It was just...a lot. I wasn't expecting it to be...so much."

"You wanna keep going?" John kissed his forehead.

"Please. Just...slower, I think." Sherlock dropped a hand to John's back, rubbing timidly.

"Okay, love. No problem. Don't worry, alright? I'm gonna make you feel so good," John murmured into his temple.

"I know. You already do. I want to make you feel good, too." Sherlock lifted his hips and circled them slowly against John's to make his point.

"Mm, you do," John moaned before kissing him softly and moving back down. "You want to start where I left off?"

Sherlock assented, a blush tinting his face, and John lifted his legs back over his shoulders, kissing softly across his inner thighs before spreading his cheeks again and tilting his head down and drag his nose over his crack. John shifted and moved his mouth down, hot breath grazing over Sherlock's hole, causing it to twitch and the man to whimper. John pressed a chaste kiss to surface, enraptured with its heat against his lips. His tongue poked out against it, flicking the bud before retreating and moving to lick a broad stripe from his cleft to his perineum, making Sherlock moan softly as his hands moved to twist into John's hair.

"Pull it if you need to," John said gruffly, his breath puffing out moist against Sherlock's hot skin. Sherlock tugged experimentally on John's hair, and John moaned, leaning back in to lick more determinedly at Sherlock's hole. His tongue flicked over it until it began to loosen before he prodded against it, sticking just the tip into the opening. Sherlock's grip tightened in his hair, just this side of painful, but John could ignore almost any level of pain just to hear the noises Sherlock was making above him. He continued to work his tongue in while Sherlock writhed, eventually shoving it in as deep as he could go and fucking him slowly, Sherlock crying out in a broken voice.

John pulled his tongue away and before Sherlock could protest its absence, a thick index finger replaced it, immediately in search of his prostate, which John found quite easily, if the the wail ripped from Sherlock's throat told him anything.

"Oh, f--John, please, more!" He cried, beads of sweat dripping down his neck as his fingers tugged at his curls.

John pulled his finger out and pressed kisses up Sherlock's sweaty torso, planting a quick kiss to his mouth before he could roll his grey eyes and complain.

"Lube. Sherlock, we need lube," John said firmly while he ran a soothing hand up his side.

Sherlock threw his hand in the direction of his nightstand. "T-top drawer. Hurry!"

"Okay, okay," John amended, reaching for the nightstand and pulling the lube out, pressing the bottle into Sherlock's hand to appease him. "Look at me, Sherlock," he paused, waiting for Sherlock to force open his eyes to meet his gaze,"Pour some on my fingers, okay? I'm gonna open you up for me," he pressed a kiss to his collarbone. "You want that?"

Sherlock nodded frantically and flicked the lid of the bottle open, pouring some onto John's turned out fingertips. John helped him settle a pillow under his hips and kissed his knee.

"Bend your knees for me, okay? Good," Sherlock followed the soft command, bending his long legs and letting the fall open, so that he was completely open to John. "God," John breathed, kissing down a pale thigh before slipping a lubed finger into his waiting hole,"you're so beautiful like this. So perfect...you drive me mad, you brilliant man."

Sherlock moaned softly, rocking his hips as John slipped in a second finger, going straight to his prostate to stroke while he bent down and took Sherlock's slender cock back into his mouth. John could do this forever, with his fingers cocooned in Sherlock's willing body and his cock stuffing his mouth, he wondered if he could come from doing this, and nothing more than a few thrusts against the mattress. He was sure he could, but not now. Now, he needed to be in Sherlock as much as Sherlock needed him. He worked a third finger in, Sherlock whining through the stretch, pausing so he could adjust before he nodded his head to let John know to continue, thrusting his hand into him, stretching as he went.

Sherlock was desperately gulping in large breaths of air, reaching to squeeze his hand around John's forearm. "John! Stop, or I'll come," he said, panicking. John pulled off quickly and withdrew his fingers, wrapping his thumb and index finger tightly around the base of Sherlock's cock to stave his climax off. He rubbed his legs, grounding him, as Sherlock took a moment to calm down, his breathing coming slower and deeper.

"That's it," John crooned softly into his skin,"it's alright." He leaned over Sherlock and pecked him on the mouth. "You okay?"

Sherlock gave him a wobbly smile and nodded. "Want you in me. I'm ready."

John leaned back down and kissed him again softly, just a slick slide of their lips. "How do you want to do this? I think it's easier on your front..."

"Like this. I need to see you," Sherlock wrapped his arms around John's shoulders to emphasize his point. "Need to kiss you."

A tender smile cracked on John's face and kissed him again. "Of course." He leaned back and settled his hands on Sherlock's knees, urging them to lay back against his chest. "Just keep like that for a moment, alright? Hold them if you need to."

Sherlock nodded and held his thighs against his chest while John smoothed lube over his throbbing cock, sighing in relief. He wiped a tad more over and into Sherlock's entrance and lined up, looking directly into Sherlock's eyes before giving a questioning nod. Sherlock nodded back, and John's breath shook as he finally pushed forward, making them both moan when the head breached.

"Still okay?" He asked, his voice strained.

"John," Sherlock whined,"don't stop."

John took a deep breath before slowly inching further in, thrusting out a bit to add more lube and continuing until his hips settled against Sherlock's bum.

Sherlock released a loud sigh of relief, adjusting to John's size as he sucked in deep ragged breaths. John had paused, trying to ebb his orgasm by thinking about the thumbs in the refrigerator, his eyes squeezed shut. He felt a warm hand cover his, and his eyes opened to a very flushed Sherlock, his pupils leaving a thin ring of grey in his eyes, a tiny smile tinting his kiss-swollen lips.

"Move," he whispered, and John groaned, following forward as Sherlock's legs came to wrap around his waist, making his cock shift inside him.

"Oh God, John..." he whimpered,"move, please."

John didn't wait any longer, he leaned forward, kissing Sherlock deeply as pulled out he began to thrust slowly. Sherlock was hot and silky around him, so perfect and tight, and John couldn't imagine ever leaving this body. His fingers tangled in Sherlock's hair, tugging softly, remembering the noises he'd made earlier when he'd stimulated his scalp. Sherlock let out a high pitched whine and rolled his hips into John's, their lips connecting messily as they breathed harshly against each other.

"H-harder," Sherlock shuddered as John's cock stroked against his prostate. " _Harder_."

John pulled out almost completely and shoved back in, their skin slapping together loudly in their quiet room. "Fuck," he grunted against pink cupid's bow lips,"fuck, Sherlock...you're so amazing...you feel so fucking perfect...fuck,"

Sherlock moaned at the praise, clawing at John's back as his pace picked up, thrusting into him roughly, the slap of their skin, seeming to drive him further. John paused abruptly on an outward stroke and circled his hips, moving to adjust Sherlock's knees over his shoulders, and leaning back down to suck on his neck as he thrust shallowly.

Sherlock let out a strangled cry, his hands moving to wind around John's neck and tangle in his hair. John growled and shoved back in, working a hand between them to stroke Sherlock's cock as he pounded into him.

A guttural "Uh!" burst from Sherlock's chest, his orgasm tingling in his spine, his balls feeling heavy with release as his inner walls fluttered around John.

"That's it," John murmured in his ear, his voice low and rough,"c'mon, baby, I've got you. Come for me."

Sherlock whined John's name, snapping pushing his hips against John's cock, almost there, ready to tumble over the edge, he just needed...

"Brilliant," John twisted his hand around the head of his cock, and then he was coming in thick ropes, a wail tearing from deep in his chest as he shook through his release. John pounded into him through it before grunting roughly and spilling into him, painting Sherlock's inner walls with his come before collapsing onto them, the sweat slicked chest sticking together as they wrapper their arms around each other and struggled to catch their breath.

As soon as he was able, John lifted himself and pulled out gently, Sherlock wincing slightly as his hole tried to gape around the emptiness. John check for any tearing or damage, happy to find none, before licking Sherlock's come off of his stomach and smiling. He flopped down next to him and pulled him into his arms, kissing him deeply. They pulled back and Sherlock hummed contently, a small smile on his face as he gazed tenderly at John.

"That was...not what I expected." He admitted, tracing invisible shapes onto John's chest.

John grinned and lifted his fingers to lips, kissing each one. "Mm. How?"

"Better," Sherlock breathed. "Better than anything I'd ever thought."

John nuzzled his cheek. "I know. Me too." Sherlock sighed and moved further into him, pushing his head under John's chin and kissing his bullet scar. John relaxed further, his arms draped over Sherlock's shoulders.

"I'm so glad you chose me," he breathed softly into the dark curls tickling his nose.

Sherlock looked up, his eyes shiny and kissed the cleft in John's chin. "John," he said fondly,"I'm not sure I ever had a choice."

***

Sherlock sat the table, a sheet draped around his waist as he waited for John set his breakfast down in front of him. Two days of shagging almost non-stop unfortunately required sustenance, so that they could shag even more, but, Sherlock thought, if three meals a day every day was what it took, then it was worth it. He was brought out of his train of thought with a fond head butt to his own and the smell of his breakfast wafting into his nose.

"Hey," John said, smiling against his hair.

"Hi," Sherlock smiled and turned, kissing him lightly on the lips.

John exhaled warmly against his skin and threaded his fingers into his hair.

"Sherlock?" he asked after a moment.

"Mm." Sherlock was reveling in the closeness, the intimacy. John was wearing his blue robe with nothing underneath, making him breakfast and nuzzling his cheek. Sherlock wasn't sure if he would ever get used to it. He wrapped his arms around John's waist and rested his head on his chest.

"I love you," came his voice above him, quiet and nervous.

Sherlock lifted his head

Blinked.

And smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And they're finally together, happy, and shagged out. As it should be. Thank you for sticking around, and thank you for leaving such nice feedback! I'm hoping to start my next project in a couple of weeks! I'm really excited about it, and since it'll be much bigger, I'll probably post bi-weekly. 
> 
> PS. For the sake of fanfiction, and just for the record, John and Sherlock are both clean AND tested and they have prior knowledge of this about each other, explaining the lack of a condom. Please, please, please stay safe and be responsible and use a condom and get tested.

**Author's Note:**

> So that's me, finishing chapter 1! I hope the ride wasn't too bumpy. I appreciate any positive feedback, and kind comments are always graciously accepted. See you (hopefully) in a week with chapter two, pups! xx


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